Too Close for Comfort
by Eruanne Aredhel
Summary: John Gage is following his partner Roy DeSoto to the hospital when he is hit and knocked off the road and out of sight by a drunk driver.


John Gage, a Paramedic Fireman for the LA County Fire Dept. sat up in his bunk in Station 51.

He heard the SCU Tones blaring. The twenty-three year old Paramedic rubbed his eyes tiredly, swinging his legs over the side over the bed and into his turnout pants.

Beside him, his best friend and partner was doing the same.

"Station 51, house fire. 309, Meridian Parkway. 3-0-9, Meridian Parkway. Cross street Melvin. Time out: 2:03."

John and his partner ran for the Squad. It was nearly pitch black outside except for the street lights that lined the sides of the street. His crew mates were running for the Fire Engine.

Captain Hank Stanley acknowledged the call, "Station 51, KMG-365."

He handed Roy the slip of paper with the address, who passed it on to John.

Captain Stanley, or Cap, as everyone of Station 51 called him, jumped into the Fire Engine beside Mike.

Marco Lopez and Chet Kelly, the two Linemen, climbed onto the back.

They arrived on the scene.

It wasn't a large fire, and they had it out in no time. Though the house was burnt to a crisp.

One person had burnt his foot pretty badly, so Roy went in the back of the ambulance with him.

The Fire Engine left for the Station, and John climbed into the Squad, going in the opposite direction toward Rampart General Hospital.

John hadn't been gone but a couple of miles, when the ambulance disappeared around a curve in front of him. Suddenly coming from the other direction he saw a flash of black, and the felt the Squad lurch forward. His head banged into the steering wheel, and blackness took over.

The Squad began rolling downhill and into the trees below. It tipped over, rolled a little farther, and slammed into a tree.

The Squad was completely hidden from view.

Roy glanced out the back window of the ambulance. They'd gone around a bend, and he hadn't seen Johnny since then. It had been at least five minutes, and he was getting worried.

'Quit being so negative, Roy,' he told himself, 'He probably just took a shortcut. He's fine. You worry too much.'

Johnny awoke to extreme pain. His head felt like it was split in two, and he felt as though he'd broken every bone in his body.

He managed to open his door, and forced himself to climb out, even though it hurt ever inch of his body. He had to see if the person in the car that had crashed him was okay.

Blood dripped from a gash in his forehead down to his chin, and finally from there to his clean blue uniform shirt. He groaned, putting a hand to his forehead.

He just wanted to pass out. To have an at least temporary escape from the pain he was in. But he couldn't let himself.

Two hundred yards away, he could see a black car, equally hidden from the road by the trees. It was badly smashed up, even in a slightly worse condition than his squad.

Getting onto his hands and feet, he began the climb. He'd be having to climb upwards, which would only make it harder.

His eyes were tearing up from the pain, and every breath hurt. He figured he must have smashed his ribcage. It was hard just to get a breath out, and he prayed that he hadn't punctured a lung.

It took him at least an hour, dragging himself, stopping to catch his breath, dragging himself, stopping again. But he finally reached the car, completely out of breath and in more pain than he'd been to begin with. He clenched his teeth against the pain, and forced himself to open the car door.

He gasped when he saw a little girl in the back seat, completely beat up. He bit his lip as realized that she was beyond help. One quick look could easily tell him that.

He looked toward the driver. 'Drunk,' he thought to himself in disgust as he caught a whiff of alcohol on him. What kind of sick person would endanger a little girl by being so foolish?

He couldn't dwell on that now. His job was to save people when he could, not let them die. He could see the slight rise and fall of the man's chest, and hear the small gasps of breath, and John knew he had to do what he could to help.

Using the car's door to support himself, John pulled himself upward, straining his muscles. He was gasping for air, and his head spun wildly when he had finally pulled himself into the car.

He gave one last sympathetic glance at the little girl, but looked away quickly to avoid tearing up.

He looked down at his watch. It was broken. He'd have to can the man's pulse himself. "Eighty-two," he said aloud to himself, only to learn the hard way that it felt like a ton of bricks falling on top of his chest just to talk.

He placed his hand over his the driver's abdomen, counting respirations; 12.

That wasn't good. He probably wouldn't make it either. John couldn't find much pity in his heart for him. John found the man's wallet, opening it up, he found his identity card. George Milligan.

John realized he'd have to go all the way back to the squad to get his equipment. Maybe the Biophone would work, and he could call in for help. He chided himself for not bringing the things in the first place, not too eager to have to go all the way back.

Well, at least he'd be going downhill, instead of uphill this time. Maybe it wouldn't be so hard.

John was right. It wasn't as hard, but it might as well have been. It was more painful. If he wasn't careful, he would slide downward. Normally, that would have been to his advantage. Now, with at least four broken ribs, it didn't feel so well to be jostling them around or practically falling on top of then.

By the time he reached the squad again, his face was tear-streaked. Every muscle in his body was protesting as he pulled himself upward and opened the squads gear door and pulled out the boxes, along with the Biophone.

He clenched his eyes shut tightly, praying that it would work. He finally found the nerve to open his eyes and try it. 'There's nothing for it,' he thought to himself.

He picked up the phone, holding down the button.

After a long pause, he managed to gasp out, "Ram...p...part...this is Squ...ad fifty-one...d...do you...re...read...m...e?"

No response. He tried again. It was all in vain. The Biophone was broken. He felt like kicking it sky high in his rage, but even if he had had the time, he did have the strength or the power.

He sighed, wondering how he was going to lug the the drug box along with himself, all the way back, and uphill. And what if the man was dead then? It would have been a waste of time time and energy. He sighed. He didn't know if he would be, so he had to at least try.

He'd only been going for fifteen minutes when he felt darkness trying to creep over him. He couldn't let himself black out. Not here...not now. But it would feel so good. No. He had to keep going. He had to help George, even if it was the last thing he did. He kept going.

Roy had been at Rampart for nearly three hours, and still no sign of John.

Dr. Kelly Brackett and Dixie McCall were equally worried.

Despatch had tried several times to contact Squad 51, but with no success. They had had police out searching for him, up and down the streets they had driven on starting all they way from the burnt down house to Rampart. But the vehicles were hidden much too well.

"That's it," Roy muttered, setting his coffee cup down on the counter and standing to his feet. "I'll go find him myself."

"Why don't you try to get Despatch to call him one more time, Roy?" Brackett asked.

Roy frowned. "Fine. But after that, I'm going to find him."

"Squad 51, do you read me?" Sam Lanier called through the Mic. "I repeat: Squad

51, do you read me?" Still no answer.

Roy drove his car up and down the streets. Chet had volunteered to come along, and Roy had accepted the help, hoping it would be useful.

Chet would drive several yards and then stop, while Roy would walk along the side of the road, carefully scanning the woods that went downwards at the side of the road. When he reached the squad, he would get in, and Chet would walk. They switched back and forth, but still nothing.

Roy sat down, looking depressed. In his frustration, he threw a stone down into the woods. Much to his surprise, he heard what sounded like the rock hitting metal.

With hope flaring, he ran down into the woods. Chet, completely puzzled and confused, followed close behind.

Roy took the path that the rock he had thrown gone.

He saw something black. As he neared it, he realized it was a car. His shoulders slumped in defeat and total disappointment.

As he liked closer, though, he saw a little girl in the back, and a man in the driver's seat. Well, even if he couldn't help John, maybe he could help them. He yelled to Chet to come and help him. They checked them out. Both were gone. Roy sighed in disgust as he smelled the alcohol on George. He started walking back toward the road and to the vehicle. He'd have to get the police and a undertaker down here.

Suddenly something caught the corner of his eyes. He turned his head. No, it couldn't be. 'Don't get your hopes up, DeSoto.' "CHET!" He yelled, running toward the figure lying face down on the ground not forty yards away.

'Almost there,' John thought to himself, using the ground to pull himself forward.

'I can make it. I know I can.' Just fifty more yards. Forty-five. Forty. Suddenly and without warning, everything went black. Johnny sank into a more peaceful sleep, where he couldn't feel pain.

Was someone trying to wake him up? Yes, someone was calling his name. Roy. He'd know that voice anywhere.

"R...Roy?" He murmured softly, stammering.

"Yes, Johnny, it's me," the voice said. Roy had tears of joy in his eyes, and Chet was looking proudly at their youngest crew mate. 'He's just too darn tough for his own good,' he thought, beaming inwardly.

"W...where am I?" John blinked his eyes open. It wasn't a dream. There was Roy, sitting on his knees beside him. And...Chet? Yes, Chet was there, too.

John grinned weekly. "Chet," she said.

"Yeah, Johnny. I'm here," Chet said softly. "You sure are tough, man."

Johnny through him a weak crooked grin. "Thanks, man."

"Gimme a hand, Chet," Roy said, taking John by the arms.

"No!" John yelled.

"John, are you okay? What's wrong?" Roy asked in concern, setting Johnny gently down on the ground.

"Hur's, Roy," he slurred. "Hur's bad."

"I'm sorry, Junior," Roy said sympathetically. "Where's the Squad? I'll have Chet go and get the backboard. Then maybe it won't be so painful."

John raised his hand weakly, pointing behind him. Roy squinted. Among the trees, tall grass and bushes, he could just see the slightest bit of bright red. Chet saw it too. He ran toward it, and was back only a minute later.

No matter how gently and carefully they tried to lift Johnny onto it, though, it still felt like a thousand daggers going into him at once, and he tried to hold back a scream of agony. With much struggling, Roy and Chet managed to carry John to the roadside on the backboard. Roy put John in the back of the truck, and Chet climbed in the back with him. Rot sped toward Rampart.

Doctor Brackett removed his stethoscope from his ears, sighing.

"How is he, Doc?" Roy asked worriedly.

"He's in pretty bad shape, I'm afraid, Roy. He's broken four ribs, his left knee cap, and he has a concussion. Not too bad, but not mild, either. He's pretty tough. I think he'll be fine. He should make a full recovery before next Friday."

Roy looked a little bit brighter. "Thanks, Doc."

*****One week later*****

"Hey, Johnny," Roy said, as he and the rest of the crew of Station 51, along with Doctors Kelly Brackett, Joe Early, and Nurse Dixie McCall crowded into the hospital room. Johnny grinned at all the attention.

"How're you feeling, John?" Brackett asked before anyone else git a chance to.

"I feel pretty lousy, honestly. But I'll make it," he said, grinning crookedly.

"Johnny, it's really had my curiosity peeked," Roy said, "what exactly happened what we're you doing so far away from the squad when we found you?"

John shrugged. "I was following you in the squad to Rampart, and out of no where, the flash of black hits me at the side. Next thing I knew, I was in the squad, rammed against a tree. So I got out, and saw the car that had hit me, and crawled over to it. The Little girl in the back..." he hesitated. "She was already gone. And the man...did he make it? I never got the chance to see. I passed out again before I got to him, I think."

Roy shook his head. "No. That sorry guy was dead when I found him. He was drunk."

John nodded. "I know. I smelled it." He finished his story, and by the end, everyone was staring at him wide eyed. "What?" He asked in confusion.

"You mean," Chet said, "that you crawled all the way from squad to that man's car, back to the squad, and then over halfway back to the car? And it took you an hour each time? Dude, and in the condition you were in?"

Johnny shrugged as though it was nothing that great or unusual. "Yeah."

Roy grinned. "John Gage, you'll never cease to amaze me."

THE END


End file.
